Tyra Banks and Juno Dog Fight Back

IN THE NAME OF REAL BEAUTY

Last summer, Joan brought me and Shane to a different animal hospital from the usual one, because the receptionist at the old place had a very loud high-pitched voice and always talked in the first-person plural. I'm not sure what that is, but it drove Joan crazy.

But, the main reason was Shane. It's so hard to find a place that doesn't mind dealing with his . . . nerves and growls. Well, we only went there once, because they tried to make Joan pay for things she said she didn't want. The receptionist kept saying the procedures were "mandatory." Joan said: "No. Breathing and rabies vaccinations are mandatory. Searching through my dogs' stool is optional." That's what Joan said, and finally they took the charge off her credit card. Okay, enough background?

Well, guess what came in the mail today? A letter from that very place, and a check for seven dollars, which I guess is the "hook." Here's what the letter says:

"Are a few pounds sneaking up on Juno?

Dear Joan and Juno,

"It happens to the best of us. A morning walk missed here, an extra treat given there. Next thing you know, love handles. You're not alone. Over 34% of America's dogs are overweight. . . .

Sincerely,

Your friends at Aldrich Animal Hospital

PS: Schedule an appointment today and see why we recomment Hill's Prescription Diet r/d and w/d Canine."

NOW I KNOW HOW TYRA BANKS FEELS. I mean, she's so beautiful it takes your breath away. But that doesn't stop some dopey humans from being mean because she's bigger than a pencil. (Like anyone of them could look half as good as she does.) And now, they're attacking DOG beauty! MY dog beauty. Well, Tyra, let's throw that seven-dollar check right back at them, okay? We're exquisite the way we are.

Wait! Did you know that Shane weighs five pounds MORE than I do? But, does Shane get a warning fat letter? No. And why doesn't Shane get a warning fat letter? Because he's not a girl, that's why. And why did they address the letter to Joan? Do they want her to eat Hill's Dog Food, too?

Sick as I am, I'm going to raid the biscuit box. It's my big-dog revolution, and I'm doing it in the name of real beauty—Tyra Banks beauty and Juno Dog beauty. Hrumph Go Tyra! Go Juno!

Best wishes from Juno

Shane & Sympathy

Here's me not feeling well; there's Shane feeling sympathy sick. Isn't that sweet of him? See, he's got a good heart, and it's not his fault he can't show it all the time.

Well, the snow I was hoping for is almost nothing, but there's lots of slippery ice. I'm still not well, but no one's sure what my problem is. (Sorry about the rug, Joan.) Sigh. Anyway, I can eat, and I can still walk around the block, so all is not lost.

A walk around the block in this weather is paw-numbing, but it's also kind of nice, because no one else is out, and that makes it peaceful.

Too bad about the garbage; it's kind of disgusting the way humans throw garbage in the street so other humans can clean up after them. And, it's never good garbage—you know, edibles. And it's never a health-food wrapper; it's junk-food wrappers and cigarette butts and lots of unmentionables. Yuk. Even dogs don't want to think about it.

But, the good part of walking in the freezing weather is the silence. You can hear cars whoosh by on the parkway, and every now and then a car tries to go in a straight line along the icy road where we're walking, but it's not loud and scary. Life is so short; we have to enjoy the silence. Otherwise, we'd go crazy from the banging and clattering and stupid revving of motorcycles and that horrible sound of the kids' motor scooters that ruin the other seasons. So, even though I'm not feeling well, I'm happy about winter.

Best wishes, Juno

Talking to Your Dinner

I'm still recuperating, taking my meds, getting my undercoat brushed out every day. The attention is great, but Shane's a little, well, envious. I think he'd like a few of my ailments. That's why I made sure we included his picture today. Me? Don't I look a little pale still? I feel pale.

Do you remember that British woman who pretended dogs could talk to her? I don't remember her name—maybe Sylvia something—but, do you know what got me about her? One day, she was pretending to talk to an iguana. Yup. An iguana. Okay, so she pulled it off really well, and she earned lots of money pretending to talk to that iguana and to a few cows and dogs and cats and lots of other animals.

But, she really slipped up one day when she told a vegetarian dog owner that her dog had said he missed eating meat. "So what?," you say. So, I don't see why the cows didn't tell her that they didn't want to be killed and made into hamburgers and canned dog food. Get it? And, I bet the phony "animal communicator" also ate meat. Now, I don't know about you, but I couldn't eat someone if I just had a conversation with them. Could you?

Well, I've got to rest again. It's an uphill battle, but I'll make it. I'm trying to be extra nice to Shane so he doesn't feel left out.

Best wishes, Juno

High Maintenance & Proud of It

I'm recuperating from my hospital visit. Okay, it's not like a human hospital, but it's called the Babylon Animal Hospital, so my condition deserves sympathy. My diagnoses: sensitive skin, sensitive ears, sensitive gums, lovely disposition. (The vet really liked me, and she even cut my nails, because I cry when Joan does it.)

Shane stayed home, because it was too cold for him to stay in the car and he's too nervous to be allowed in the hospital unless he's getting a checkup.

Anyway, I haven't been feeling too well and I have a terrible "hot spot," so Joan took me to the hospital this evening. She called me "high maintenance"; but everyone at the office—even two people who had cats—said I was really pretty.

Oh, and guess what? I don't weigh 130 pounds anymore. I only weigh 120 pounds. How's that for progress? And it's all because Joan started copying Cesar Millan and making me go on walks. Yeah, I eat what I want, but the walks really work. Just email me if you need any diet tips.

Joan also pulled a Cesar in the vet's office. When I wouldn't get on the elevator table, the vet was about to go get help to lift me on it. Joan said, "Wait, I'm going to pull a Cesar." And she took me by the leash, made that Cesar "tsshhhhhhhh" sound, and said, "I'm the leader of the pack." It was like a spell came over me. Entranced and obedient, I got on the table. The checkup wasn't a thrill, but I got through it.

Now, I've got to go sleep off my adventure. Whew.

Best wishes, Juno

Our Friend John Is No Dog

This picture says it all. Here's our friend John with me—the relaxed one—and Shane—the tense one. Now, John has always been a dog man. He understands us. Sometimes, he thinks he's a dog himself, and he gets down on the floor and asks me if I want to play with him. Even though he knows I don't know how to play, it's nice that he asks anyway. I mean, it's so cute the way he keeps trying to get me to act more like a human and the way he tries to get himself to act more like a dog. I'd like to give him some pointers, but it wouldn't help. Either you're a dog, or you're not.

But, would you look at Shane? When John comes to visit, Joan always has to remind him NOT to stick his face in Shane's, because John forgets that as much as he tries, he's got that humanness about him and there's no escaping it.

Don't get me wrong. Shane likes John. But, he still gets all nervous when John's on the floor acting like one of us. That's why he just sits there and stares at Joan's camera. I'm telling you. Maybe you can teach an old dog new tricks, but you can't teach an old dog human tricks, and you can't teach an old human new dog tricks. Wait. Now I'm all confused. Thanks, John.

Best wishes, Juno

Don't Shampoo! Dog Poo!

I promise that Joan has no connection with the makers of Dog Poo. Neither do I. Neither does Shane or any other dog in the neighborhood. Neither does Kyla, who bought the special herbal dog shampoo in the first place as a Christmas present. There, have I offered enough disclaimers? (Joan said it was necessary or no one would believe me.)

Well, here's the scoop on Dog Poo (you like that play on words?): Dog Poo is the best shampoo I've ever had massaged into my fur. It smells clean—not perfumy clean, but clean-all-over morning-sunshine clean—and has left my coat so soft, shiny, and with a manageability, well, I simply can't believe it. Also, I don't look all pink anymore! So, don't just shampoo your best friends; Dog Poo them!

True, I wasn't happy at the prospect of yet another bath. No, I didn't want to look all drowned-ratty and miserable and squished into the narrow bathtub against my will, against my better judgment, against the spirit of my dogginess. But, once again, Joan aka the Human ruled. And she was right. I feel better and I know I look like one of those plus-sized models—only better. Now that I think of it, what with all those Miss USA people going to rehab and having babies, maybe I could take someone's place. I'm sure the Dog Poo people would sponsor me. How about it, Mr. Trump?

Best wishes, Juno aka Miss Dog USA

Bathing for Bubba

Me after my bath, thinking about Bubba.
Bubba before his bath thinking about me?


Yesterday, Joan came home from shopping smelling like dog. She had run into her friend Stephanie and went to her house to have coffee with her and Bubba. That's Bubba in the picture. Well, la-de-da, I think I'm in love. Bubba weighs around 200 pounds, so next to him, I'm a veritable slip of a girl. Look at that picture. He's so big, I think Shane might even roll on his back and let Bubba sniff him in spots that would spell danger to a lesser dog. And, if Shane got all weirded out, Bubba could calmly rest his paw on Shane's belly. That would do it. Cool.

True, I like to be the one to get all the attention, but I'm willing to let Bubba share the glory of big and beautiful.

On a more somber note, I got a bath even though it's raining. Joan said I'd be happier and that we were doing it for Bubba. Well, let's see how I feel when I dry. Yeah, and PS, Shane didn't "need" a bath.

Best washes, I mean, wishes, Juno

Stuffed Puppies Make Perfect Practice

PHOTO: Andrea (the big one, like me), Kino, and Pinky,
THEY'RE ALL THE RAGE! PRACTICE ON A WEBKIN BEFORE GETTING THE REAL THING!

I note a new craze among small children in the area—or maybe it's sweeping the country, I'm not sure. But, more and more children are showing up at school with these cute stuffed puppies. They call them Webkins, or something like that, and they all come with a warning about not eating or chewing on their contents. Some are all clean and soft, some are a little stinky and sticky, and others need a major run through the dry cleaner's drum. But, they all have one thing in common. They are the cutest, cuddliest puppies on the phony side of real.

Well, I'm excited about it because having a Webkin can be great practice for having the real thing—like me. I mean, little kids can practice taking care of the stuffed dogs, and if they forget to take care of them—like getting the battery wet or dropping one of the Webkins out the car window—well, no real harm is done. And, when the kids grow up, they can get a real dog like me, and they'll be smart enough not to tie it up in the backyard for its entire life. (Really, if you're the type of human who's that mean to dogs, give your dogs to someone else and get yourself a Webkin.)

Speaking of needing a bath, it's supposed to rain all weekend, and there's no sense getting a bath in such inclement weather. I'll just pick up all that mud and have to get a second bath. Why make double the work? Okay, I didn't get snow I had longed for, but out of the most dismal circumstances the most wonderful things can happen. A weekend of rain and no bath. Life is a surprise.

Best wishes, Juno

Ishmael's Afternoon Visit

This is Ish (short for Ishmael. I used to think his name was "Itch," but now I know better). He lives across the street, but Joan let him stay in the yard for a while because he was running in the street and hasn't lived long enough to know what cars can do to puppies on the run. Whew. What a pawful. Shane had to go inside because Joan was afraid he'd go into one of his tizzies and try to bite little Ish. We really could have used Cesar Millan in the flesh, but Joan says Cesar's way out of our financial league for sure. I guess we could break the Dog Whisperer DVD up into Shane's dinner, so he could really digest Cesar's essence; but if it doesn't work, we'd still have an anxiety-ridden dog and no Cesar DVDs. Well, Shane went inside and I stayed outside with Ish, but, I'm telling you, that puppy ran me ragged.

I don't remember being that young and energetic. I got some counseling when I was held at the Little Shelter in Huntington, but it didn't make me into a playing type of dog like Ish. I look forward to more visits from Ish, but maybe it would be better if he made the next visit when life has calmed the puppyhood of his spirit (or is it the spirit of his puppyhood?). Wow. Why can't Shane and Ish be more like—well—me?

Best wishes, Juno

I Feel a Bath Coming On

Where's the snow? Look at the green grass. It's crazy. Usually about this time of year, I can relax, because I know I won't be getting a bath any time soon. This is because of January snowfalls. Snow is a great bather of dogs, a cleanser of the air, and an all-round brightening element of—well—the world. Who wants to go to war when the houses are glistening white and pillowy soft or when you have to shovel out the driveway in order to get to the battleground? No one.

I never get a bath when it snows, because the snow keeps me cleaner than a day at the spa (not that I've ever been to a spa). But, I'm getting worried. It hasn't snowed at all, not even a flake, and yesterday I caught Joan reading the ingredients label on the "Dog Poo" shampoo I got for Christmas. She's so into clean, it's ridiculous. She's got enough to do. What with her job, her other two blogs, the shopping, the cooking of healthy foods, her crunchies, the dog walks, and the vacuuming of dog fur from the red rug in the living room, she really shouldn't bother. Really. Oh, please, snow. Why haven't you come this year? Where are your soft hills on the grass, your sweet powder that tickles my nose, your icy caress on my fulsome back?

Joan says I can get as poetic as I like; I'm still getting a bath this weekend. She calls it tough love a la Joan.

Best wishes, Juno

PS: Thanks to all of you who've signed in on the map.

Bonding and Sniffing

Shane and I never see eye to eye, but we get along. Sometimes humans complain that their dogs don't "bond" with them or with other dogs in the family. That's so trendy. So what if we don't bond. Bonding isn't a trick like "sit" or "roll over." Shane looks to the left; I look to the right. Then, we share insight at the end of the day. Imagine if people knew that trick!

Yesterday was cesspool day. The shocking smells, the gurgling noises, the loud truck hogging up the driveway. What more could a dog ask of life! (No question mark; that's an exclamation of the highest order.) You can't just stop and smell the roses; it's too predictable. You've got to do what dogs do: sniff it all.

Hey, and the cesspool guy was so polite. I think he thought me beautiful. He didn't actually say those words, but I could see it in his blue eyes. I also think he had deep respect for Shane's low bark behind the glass door.

Best wishes, Juno

Crossroads at Dawn

If I look a little confused in this picture, I am. What time is it, anyway? Five in the morning and Joan's capturing my portrait on digital? I haven't even shaken the sleep from my eyes.

Wait a minute; dogs don't have to shake the sleep from their eyes. God, I hope I'm not getting human qualities, because who knows where that would lead. Dogs never wake up groggy unless they've had an operation or something. We just wake up, kaBAMM, ready to see what's up. Humans don't do that at all. Like Joan, for example. She kind of slaps the covers back and slowly drags herself out of sleep, especially when it's cold. Then, she rubs her eyes, mumbles things about how there's no choice, who needs all that sleep anyway?, and opens the sliding-glass door to the rising dawn. Shane and I run outside to check out the rabbits, and she closes herself back inside the house to do whatever humans feel they have to do before presenting themselves to other humans. But, this morning, it was as though she had some sort of epiphany or photographic inspiration. She's up to something; I can just feel it.

Me? Look at that picture. It looks as though I just took the indecisive road (see the crossroads behind me?), and can't decide what to do next. Oh, I know—breakfast. Okay. Smile for the camera. Let's get it over with.

Best wishes, Juno

Prozac for Dogs?

If you walk past Shane, his body gets all stiff, his eyes get wide, showing evidence of his wild-dog roots, and his mind shifts into fear mode. Even when he lies on his back, begging for a nice belly rub, the instant his wish comes true, he throws himself into a paralytic state, and you'd swear he were having one of those bad dreams where you're trying to run away from an unspeakable dark monster, but you can't because your body is paralyzed. Yeah. We've all had those dreams, but Shane lives that way.

Joan's working on his ready-to-fight whine, which he inaugurates every time we walk past a dog. She makes Cesar Millan noises and "corrects" him the instant a whine escapes from his dog lips. But, still, there's nothing but a Prozac pill between Shane and obsessive-compulsive.

Maybe there are some dogs who just can't make it in the human world; I mean, it's logical, since there are lots of humans who wouldn't be able to learn all the etiquette and social nuances in a dog world. Now that I think about it, there are lots of humans who can't figure out their own human rules of conduct. So, no surprise there.

We're not giving up on Shane. But, maybe we've got to come to terms with the fact that he's a dog. No easy task, living with Joan.

Best wishes, Juno

Electric Beansprouts

Twice around the block today. What were we supposed to be looking for? Six times the phone rang. Who would call that many times? Not that I'm counting.

But, speaking of counting, Joan just bought this electric bean sprouter—see the picture? It's a monster—and it's kind of driving me crazy because it just sits there all quiet, and then, all of a sudden, it starts going around and around, and water squirts out over the beans. And it makes a whirring sound that would be okay if it were constant. But, it's not. First, everything is all quiet. Then, it whirs and I have to jump up to check it out. Then, it stops, and I get all peaceful again. Then, pshhhththshhhhhhhhthp, it up and spins again. It's done it so many times, I've lost count.

You humans, you humans. For thousands and thousands of years, people sprouted beans in silent pots. What is to become of you? What's to become of the universe? On the plus side, soybean sprouts are healthful, and they're very tasty with rice and peppers and tofu. Shane and I often get the yummy leftovers, and I've got to admit, we're in pretty good shape for dogs who've been around the block more than once—metaphorically speaking, that is.

Best wishes, Juno

Music on a Metal Roof

A rainy day is a musical gift. Shane and I lie quietly listening to the patterns of rain slap and tap tap tap against the sunroom roof. Shhhhhhhhhh-ta-shhhhhh, te tu tu shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Okay, that's not how it really sounds; it's not my fault your human alphabets can't twist themselves into the sounds of Nature.

There are crescendos and fades and instances of silence that burst its own seams with anticipation—my anticipation—of the next wave: shhhhhhhhhh-ta-shhhhhh, te tu tu shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. It's not pleasant to be out in the rain, at least not for me. Shane doesn't care because he has that thick seal's coat. My coat is like a crocheted sweater. Brrrrrrrrrr. No protection at all. So, sitting in the sunroom on a rainy day is like having my Milk Bone and eating it, too.

Perfection is achievable; sometimes it's an onomatopoeia, sometimes it's Pavarotti's high C, and sometimes it's a rainy day under a metal roof. You just have to accept it for what it is.

Best wishes, Juno